Coincidences Don't Exist
by The Angel of London
Summary: John and Rose meet in the parallel world and became friends. Then... First came Sherlock. Second came the Doctor. [2/3-Shot]


**Coincidences Don't Exist**

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**The First**

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In a normal situation, it'd be ridiculous. The way they just gravitated towards each other as if they both knew they were going through sort of the same thing was magnetic.

Being stuck in a parallel world, Rose didn't know if it was a good thing or bad. She finally understood how much the Doctor truly meant to her now that she lost him. She may've taken her dangerous and exciting life for granted after a while. This was probably her punishment.

And for him, returning to that pre-Sherlock state of emptiness and depression was made much harder by knowing that he had lived an exciting and dangerous life for those eighteen precious months. It took no time for him to revert to being that ex-army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and a bad shoulder.

It was somewhat twisted – how they met. Rose was just looking for something perilous that would give her an adrenaline rush and a sense of adventure and John was just trying his best to pretend that he could work as a _detective _just as well without Sherlock.

She had heard running footsteps and shouting – probably the police – for the fiend to cease his running and surrender. Naturally, she thought, the criminal didn't. And luckily she was in the right place at the right time doing the right thing; intercepting and tackling the man.

As she miraculously restrained him, making sure to press her small penknife against his back as a warning, the police arrived and, at the forefront, a short, blond-ish man around his late thirties. Seeing a woman who, at first glance, seemed to be in her mid-twenties restrain a larger man must've shocked them, because she had to practically order them to take charge of the problem.

The man was taken away and everyone began leaving, except for that blond man. Instead, he introduced himself as John Watson and offered a hand. She introduced herself as Rose, hoping she could restrain herself from reacting at his familiar name, and shook his hand.

John could see, from the moment he witnessed her subdue the murderer, that she had something different about her. He wasn't _Sherlock _– he wasn't nearly as observant as his, well, friend – but he could tell she wasn't your average run-of-the-mill woman. He saw a sadness and loss in her that mimicked his all too well.

And from that moment, since they shook hands in that backstreet in Kennington, they had a connection. A connection formed through loss and pain, and it was a mutual understanding that they would help each other survive - at least.

They did. By then, it had been almost half a year since she had been trapped in the parallel world and the scandal involving Sherlock Holmes had occurred six weeks before her entrapment, but neither knew it was just a matter of time before the people they loved were returned to them, in some form or another.

...

First it was Sherlock. After sixteen months away, he returned to Baker Street somewhat worriedly. He could hear voices – one male and one female – in the kitchen. The male voice was obviously John; he would recognise it even after more than a year. However, the female voice was a mystery. Was it his new girlfriend? Perhaps a new flatmate?

The living room had barely changed in those long sixteen months; it was neater and more organised and the TV was new. But the bullet holes remained, and his violin was still there, in its case. Not a speck of dust on it; regularly cleaned.

In the kitchen, the chattering suddenly stopped and John and Rose froze at seeing the man standing in the living room as if it were a normal thing. Rose, even though having never seen him in person, immediately recognised him for who he was and took charge of the situation [John was too shocked to react with something other than wide eyes]. The fact that she hadn't known him personally, she supposed later on, made it easier for her to rapidly assimilate his being actually alive. And of course, she got angry.

"You're alive. You have been for these sixteen months, haven't you!" She got to the point quickly, Sherlock noted, whoever she was. "Sixteen bloody months! You've got a lot of nerve swanning in 'ere like nothing's happened." She looked back at John, "sorry John, but I think I'll have the honour of doing it _this_ time." Rose pulled her fist back and slammed it onto Sherlock's face, surprising him greatly and thus almost knocking him off balance. For good measure, she kicked him in the leg – mainly to let out steam.

Then, entirely nonchalantly, she walked back to retrieve her tea from where she'd left it on the coffee table. "Your go, John. I think I'm calm now." She said this with a cheeky smile and John just nodded slightly exasperated, but fondly.

Sherlock straightened up, cradling his face. "I deserved that," he admitted, ignoring the woman's hum of agreement. "John..."

The ex-army doctor cut him off though. "You're alive. What was the point in faking your suicide?"

The consulting detective – he was still one, sixteen month hiatus aside – sighed and explained how Moriarty had had snipers trained on him, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, all of whom would've died if he, Sherlock, hadn't.

John accepted it easily, and, to Sherlock's surprise, so did that blonde girl. She'd seemed not very forgiving at first, but he hadn't had time to look at her before she just socked him a good one. "John, who is _she_?"

The older man ignored the slight edge in the last word, "a friend who's quite dear to me. Rose helped me when I thought you were dead." Sherlock prompted him to talk more. "She stays over on the weekends: which is why you'll find some of her stuff. She keeps me company, and she makes a great tea."

Sherlock looked over to the blonde and ran a critical eye over her. She sat on the sofa next to John and passed a cup of tea to him, and another to Sherlock. However, the latter couldn't help but deduce everything he could about her.

"So tell me, Mr Holmes," her voice interrupted, "what can you deduce about me?" John spared her an amused glance and she responded with a wink that said _let's see if he can prove his talent_. Sherlock saw the challenge in her words and took it with confidence.

"You've been in dangerous situations frequently and you don't always come out unscathed; you have cuts and bruises on your arms which aren't too old and older scars. You're younger than you seem; you carry yourself differently from other women in their early-twenties – heavier somehow, like you've seen things you'd rather have not seen. You've lived more than someone of your age would. You've exercised your legs as your kick was much harder than your punch; evidently you haven't had experience in fighting as you didn't aim anywhere specifically to cause damage, so it must've been running that you gained lower body strength.

"Your hair is regularly bleached, but it's been a while since the last time – your roots are showing, so something has happened to interrupt your routine, or you are anticipating something and it's distracting you. You don't wear jewellery, suggesting you are always active and moving and it's just a hindrance for you.

"The fact that your nails have been regularly bitten means you are under stress of some sort. It could be work related, but you also don't have the general body language of someone working at an office or shop. You don't seem like a receptionist – and it's unlikely you work anywhere that doesn't involve physical activity; your previous lifestyle was too fast-paced and dangerous for you to adjust to a more quotidian lifestyle so rapidly. The stress must come from elsewhere – perhaps you are missing a family member or friend, or they are ill. It's unlikely, however, that a family member or friend is ill – you would be with them if you were; you are loyal, as proven when you punched me. So maybe it's a nervous habit you haven't been able to break.

"Your trousers are slightly looser than they should be and you're using a belt to keep them on properly, so you obviously lost weight recently – again, leading to the conclusion that you are stressed. Someone is away or missing and you can't do anything to help, find or contact them. Unmarried but not exactly single. You're in love."

He stared at Rose, waiting for her reaction. John looked impressed at the depth of his deductions, while she just looked surprised, and slightly defensive. "You missed something," she told him. "I can do something to find him, and _dangerous _doesn't begin to cover it..."

Sherlock looked fixedly at Rose, silently imploring her to tell him what else. He knew there was something else he missed, but he didn't know what it was. "What? What was it? What did I miss?"

She ignored him, however, and instead turned to John. "Should I go, so you can catch up with him?" The army doctor started to protest, but she just mentioned something about going to _Torchwood _to test a project of hers.

_Torchwood_? What was Torchwood?

He didn't ask, and just said nodded as she passed by. She and John hugged and promised to update each other on new developments on _something _– again, what did they mean? – and then she left.

It was just him and John; alone for the first time in sixteen months. He could've asked his friend questions – about Rose, about the past many months, about anything. But he didn't.

He just retrieved his old violin from the case, tuned it and started playing what used to be John's favourite piece. Maybe that was the best way to spend that evening.

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**Wow. Wrote this originally around mid-June, after looking for WhoLock crossovers and finding few I liked.**

**By the by, I hope my Sherlock deduction wasn't too bad...**

**Will be a two-shot, maybe three. Could've been a one-shot, but I really wanted to get this part out there already.**

_**Words: **__1654_

_**Posted:**__ 6__th__ July 2013_


End file.
